at Dohertyâs sores. Doherty had been flat on his stomach at the time, hospital gown parted so they could see his buttocks. Harry had only just managed to keep from throwing up.
First of all, heâd been embarrassed and humiliated for Doherty. He was a grown-up. How did he feel, lying there, helpless, exposed, a lesson in what not to do? How could Eileen do that to him? How could Doherty let her?
And then there were the sores themselves. Okay, Doherty was a quad, and couldnât use his arms for shifting. Still, though, he should have done something. It was his responsibility. Doherty had even said so himself when Eileen got through lecturing. Heâd gotten careless. Eileen said heâd take months to heal, and that was if he was lucky. If not, heâd need surgery. And what if it happened again?
Harry didnât plan to get pressure sores. He didnât plan to have his ass look like thatâor be on public display if it did. He had set his watch alarm to go off every five minutes during the day. After a week, Harry figured the shifting would be automatic. If it wasnât, well, heâd go back on the alarm until it was. And then heâd find some way to contend with regular turning in bed at night. By himself.
âWhat a great idea!â Eileen had said about the watch alarm that morning, had said loudly, enthusiastically. Eileen was always loud and, when she wasnât issuing dire warnings, enthusiastic. Somehow she had found out what Harry was doing. He really didnât know why people couldnât just mind their own business.
But, since the accident, heâd found that people had absolutely no concept of what was and wasnât their business. Take Eileen. She was supposed to do what she was paid for, tell him about pressure sores, exercises, stuff like that. He understood that. And he needed her. He understood that too, even if he didnât like it. But when they were working in the gym, why did she have to answer his questions in such a loud voice? Why did she have to tell other people what he was doing, how he was doing, why he was doing? Why was his body suddenly everybodyâs business? Why was Dohertyâs? And even if it was, even if they really did have to know (and he didnât see why all of them had to know everything), then why were they all so determined to make sure he knew they knew?
Harry sighed. 1010 Brookside was almost over. Anna had been tied up and carried off. It was a funny thing. He felt like Anna. Someone had snuck up behind him and hit him over the head, and now he was tied up, a helpless prisoner. Buzz. A prisoner who had to do lifts. He did one.
A prisoner who had to go and see Dr. Jefferies. Dr. Jefferies was a psychiatrist. Harry had to see her twice a week. Dr. Jefferies was even worse than Eileen. At first she had been useful, had answered many of his questions without his even needing to ask them, had even given him two or three books thatâd been kind of helpful.
But lately sheâd been trying to get into his head.
Harry wheeled himself out of the rec room and down the ward corridor. He stopped for a second at the nursesâ station to let them know where he was goingâas if he didnât do the same thing every Tuesday and Friday!âand then pressed the button for the elevator. His watch buzzed while he waited. He did his lift.
âGood job, Harry!â he heard one of the nurses call. âKeep up the lifts!â
Harry winced. He didnât reply, he didnât turn. How could they tell? They shouldnât be able to. He would practice more with the mirror.
At last the elevator arrived. He wheeled in. There was a couple inside, wearing street clothes. They were blocking the buttons.
âPress seven, please,â Harry said. He occupied himself in wheeling around so he was facing forward. Maybe he should have rolled in backward. Heâd forgotten about that.
âSure,â said the man, a little
First of all, heâd been embarrassed and humiliated for Doherty. He was a grown-up. How did he feel, lying there, helpless, exposed, a lesson in what not to do? How could Eileen do that to him? How could Doherty let her?
And then there were the sores themselves. Okay, Doherty was a quad, and couldnât use his arms for shifting. Still, though, he should have done something. It was his responsibility. Doherty had even said so himself when Eileen got through lecturing. Heâd gotten careless. Eileen said heâd take months to heal, and that was if he was lucky. If not, heâd need surgery. And what if it happened again?
Harry didnât plan to get pressure sores. He didnât plan to have his ass look like thatâor be on public display if it did. He had set his watch alarm to go off every five minutes during the day. After a week, Harry figured the shifting would be automatic. If it wasnât, well, heâd go back on the alarm until it was. And then heâd find some way to contend with regular turning in bed at night. By himself.
âWhat a great idea!â Eileen had said about the watch alarm that morning, had said loudly, enthusiastically. Eileen was always loud and, when she wasnât issuing dire warnings, enthusiastic. Somehow she had found out what Harry was doing. He really didnât know why people couldnât just mind their own business.
But, since the accident, heâd found that people had absolutely no concept of what was and wasnât their business. Take Eileen. She was supposed to do what she was paid for, tell him about pressure sores, exercises, stuff like that. He understood that. And he needed her. He understood that too, even if he didnât like it. But when they were working in the gym, why did she have to answer his questions in such a loud voice? Why did she have to tell other people what he was doing, how he was doing, why he was doing? Why was his body suddenly everybodyâs business? Why was Dohertyâs? And even if it was, even if they really did have to know (and he didnât see why all of them had to know everything), then why were they all so determined to make sure he knew they knew?
Harry sighed. 1010 Brookside was almost over. Anna had been tied up and carried off. It was a funny thing. He felt like Anna. Someone had snuck up behind him and hit him over the head, and now he was tied up, a helpless prisoner. Buzz. A prisoner who had to do lifts. He did one.
A prisoner who had to go and see Dr. Jefferies. Dr. Jefferies was a psychiatrist. Harry had to see her twice a week. Dr. Jefferies was even worse than Eileen. At first she had been useful, had answered many of his questions without his even needing to ask them, had even given him two or three books thatâd been kind of helpful.
But lately sheâd been trying to get into his head.
Harry wheeled himself out of the rec room and down the ward corridor. He stopped for a second at the nursesâ station to let them know where he was goingâas if he didnât do the same thing every Tuesday and Friday!âand then pressed the button for the elevator. His watch buzzed while he waited. He did his lift.
âGood job, Harry!â he heard one of the nurses call. âKeep up the lifts!â
Harry winced. He didnât reply, he didnât turn. How could they tell? They shouldnât be able to. He would practice more with the mirror.
At last the elevator arrived. He wheeled in. There was a couple inside, wearing street clothes. They were blocking the buttons.
âPress seven, please,â Harry said. He occupied himself in wheeling around so he was facing forward. Maybe he should have rolled in backward. Heâd forgotten about that.
âSure,â said the man, a little
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